


The Boy At The Station

by ThreeMonthsInTheJungle



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock BBC
Genre: M/M, idk man series four just fucked me up, mormor, sherlock bbc - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-09-18 00:10:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9352760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThreeMonthsInTheJungle/pseuds/ThreeMonthsInTheJungle
Summary: Sebastian Moran revisits a boy he left at home.





	

Something about the smell of rain in the late afternoon would always remind Sebastian of _his_ Moriarty. Jimmy, as he had known him, never Jim, never James. _Jim_ was something else entirely, an evolution no one had anticipated. He came later. James was always the elder Moriarty, not _his_. 

Weak sunlight filtering through the trees, damp grass underfoot, soaking through a pair of cheap trainers. Damp, earthy, but not unpleasant, tangling up with clinical clean, crisp white shirts, pressed, perfect. _That _was Jimmy.__

That, and undisturbed silence. Except, it wasn’t silent if you listened hard enough. Sometimes, they would. Sometimes, on those days where no amount of gentle coaxing could make that boy speak, when his eyes glazed over, somehow a darker pitch than ever, they would sit and listen to the wind. The rustle of a branch here and there. The whisper soft tearing of fistfuls of grass. And in the distance, once an hour, a train. Tearing through the countryside, loud and abrasive and oh, so obnoxious. A whistle, faint, distant. And then silence. Peace. Just the two of them. 

Jimmy would always twitch at the sound. He listened for it, Sebastian knew. Counted down the minutes. Perked up a little when he heard the approach. 

Even on the good days, the rambling, _beautiful_ , stream of consciousness would fall short. Like someone had cut off the air, just to hear that whistle.

They never faced the station, always staring across the valleys. Backs to the village below. Anyone would swear them both bored. Sat in silence, collecting fistfuls of grass. Dirt beneath his nails, but Jimmy's hands were always pristine. 

Sometimes, on the good days, they would walk. Hand in hand when it was quiet. Shoulder to shoulder when it wasn’t. Always straight to the station. 

They could stand for hours at that fence. Jim on the tips of his toes, scuffing up a tiny pair of polished brogues. Sebastian didn’t need to strain. He could see over the fence without effort. Besides, he wasn’t watching the trains. He could lean back up against that fence all day, staring at something infinitely more interesting. 

James didn’t bother them, not really. Senior, the brother. On occasion, he would pass the fence. Ruffling his hair. Christmas 1986, he’d hung a conductor’s whistle around Jim’s scrawny neck. He hadn’t cracked a smile. Smiles were for Sebastian. He kept the whistle, though, torn from around his neck, clutched tight in a fist. 

Once, he had offered to take Jim up to the signal box. With the twisted sneer that appeared on Jim’s face, he may as well have offered to show the boy how to gut a puppy. He didn’t ask again. 

A lifetime later, Sebastian returned. James Snr was long dead; no one to report back to. The Station Master's cottage was lifeless as he passed on foot. It was empty. At least, Sebastian hoped it was empty. No one should be in there, not in Jimmy's room, not in Jimmy's house. It didn't _belong_ to anyone else.

The ghost of a boy stood at the fence, paint chipped and peeling away. Weeds had grown around him, wild grass clawing through the concrete, reclaiming every inch of space the old station had occupied. 

But still he stood, unchanged, unspoiled. Hands clutching the fence post for dear life. Pressed white shirt fluttering in the breeze. He didn’t speak; it wasn’t a good day. Sebastian knew. He always knew. 

The tracks had drowned in the undergrowth, rusting rails buried. Once an hour, nothing came. The gate was stiff with age. It wouldn’t open and Sebastian wouldn’t force it. He hopped the fence instead, pacing the length of the platform like a teenager with nowhere better to be on a summer’s eve. The boy at the fence was gone. 


End file.
